


Primary Source Evidence

by marginaliana



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, First Time, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Shaving, pre-Victorian Farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 23:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13018260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: It was only two weeks to filming, at the end of yet another grueling meeting, that Peter raised a hand to his face and realized that he needed to learn how to do a Victorian shave."I could teach you," Alex said.





	Primary Source Evidence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillingstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/gifts).



The months leading up to the start of the Victorian series were busy ones, filled with tracking down the minutia of fitting themselves into a time period that didn't come as naturally as their own. So many of the details were things they knew from other work: clothing, best left to the BBC costuming department; what to eat, which was thoroughly documented in the literature already; how to run the house, a project that Ruth had thrown herself into with abandon. But new questions kept cropping up. What kind of soil did they have and what would be best to plant? Should they even research that ahead of time or just have locals advise them on camera? Where would they get the horses? Would they go to church, and if so, where, and in what clothing?

It was only two weeks to filming, at the end of yet another grueling meeting, that Peter raised a hand to his face and realized that he needed to learn how to do a Victorian shave. 

They'd been provided with various supplies already – the shaving materials were made carefully to a period recipe. Peter had sniffed his, made a face at the bergamot, and then set it aside without much thought. He'd have to get used to it, just like he'd have to get used to everything else.

But now, with the definite feeling of stubble beneath his palm, he sighed. "I suppose I'd better give it a try now," he said, mostly to himself. 

"Mmm?" said Alex, turning in his direction. Peter tried not to flush under his gaze. Recently Alex's attention had begun to create a little frisson when it landed on him, a little hum beneath his skin. 

He didn't bother pretending he didn't know what it meant, that thrill. 

He only wondered why it had happened now. They'd known each other so long, first at university and then on summer digs and then during the Green Valley series when they'd lived practically in each other's pockets. And yet it had been only in the last few months that he'd begun to look at Alex with new eyes. While they sat side-by-side in BBC production meetings, while they stood in archives looking over maps, while they lounged in pubs, drinking cider and talking about crop rotation.

Perhaps it was just that Alex seemed to have grown into his face at last, that he looked like a man instead of a gawky university student. Perhaps it was that the three of them were in charge of this series, more or less, instead of being along for the manual labor and the learning experience. Alex hadn't hesitated to make the most of that – he was confident about putting his ideas forwards and not afraid to argue his point. He even had opinions about how they should film things, which was new. The confidence suited him.

Peter couldn't stop thinking about him.

"Shaving," he clarified, trying to keep himself on track. "With a straight razor, I mean. I'd better practice now, with a proper mirror, so that I won't cut my own head off when all I have to work with is a wobbly piece of tin." He rubbed his chin again, then grinned. "I'm glad I'm allowed access to Youtube for just a bit longer."

"I could teach you," Alex said.

Peter blinked. "You could teach me shaving?" he asked incredulously. Alex's face was not one that produced hair in any sort of consistent manner; he'd tried growing a goatee back in university, but the experiment had only lasted a week because he'd been roundly mocked by nearly everyone he came across. Hard to believe he would have got into the habit of shaving in the old style. "I thought you'd given up on facial hair after 2002."

"I did get further than that, once," said Alex. "It was while you were in Greece."

The one summer dig when they hadn't been on the same project. 

"I mean," Alex continued, "I never got a massive mop like yours from third year—" He gestured as if to signify that Peter's beard had been the size of a corpulent watermelon. "—but it was respectable enough to require upkeep." 

Peter laughed at that, couldn't help himself. 

"And then I just carried on with it, when I had the time. Which I haven't, always. But I could teach you."

"Yeah, all right," Peter said, without really knowing he'd said it until he'd said it. "Teach me, then."

Alex flashed him an odd smile. "Come by mine after we're done for the day?" he said. "Bring the razor they gave you; that one will do well enough."

"'Well enough,' is it?" Peter said, raising an eyebrow at him. "I hope you're not going to be so precious about everything we've got. Otherwise this year is going to be something of a struggle." 

Alex laughed. "I'm only precious about my beautiful face," he said, and then laughed even harder when Peter rolled his eyes and shoved him.

 

It was six o'clock when Peter knocked on the door of Alex's flat, carrying his BBC shaving supplies and wearing a worn tee rather than the professional button-up he'd had earlier. 

He was nervous – not because he thought Alex might accidentally do him in, but because he knew he'd have to take care not to reveal too much. Still, he wasn't going to deny himself a few moments of secret enjoyment. Especially since he was almost certainly going to be celibate for the next year.

Alex let him in and they passed through his minuscule sitting room into the bathroom. He'd set out a stool in front of the mirror – and another one in the corner – and Peter let himself be directed into it. There was a line-up of items along the counter: a small towel, lifting a faint wisp of steam into the air; a thin bottle; a squat jar; a small cup; an upturned shaving brush. Alex opened Peter's bag and began examining what was there, opening the bottles and smelling them, testing the consistency with a fingertip. In the end, he accepted the razor and put away the rest. Peter made an inquisitive noise.

"My stuff smells much better," Alex said. "I know you hate bergamot."

Peter didn't dare let himself think about the fact that Alex had remembered what scents he liked. "Cheers," he said. 

Alex finished arranging things to his satisfaction and then reached for another towel, which he whirled around Peter's neck with an exaggerated flourish.

"And are you well today, monsieur?" The accent was atrocious.

"Very well, thank you," said Peter. "Which part of France are you from? The Australian part?"

Alex laughed. "Australian France by way of Scottish France, maybe," he said, in his own voice. He came to stand behind Peter, resting his hands on Peter's shoulders for a brief moment. Peter held very still until he took them away.

"First," Alex said, falling into his lecturing voice, "you have to warm up, soften the skin. Ideally you'd be fresh out of the shower, which is probably what you do already, I suppose, but it's more important when you're using a straight razor. And you can shortcut that by doing just the face." He slid around to Peter's front and picked up the small towel, still steaming, then applied it to Peter's left cheek. He held it there for a long moment before moving to his mouth, and then the other cheek, and then down under the line of his jaw to his neck and back across. The warmth of it felt amazing after the thin, dusty air of the BBC offices. Peter's eyes dipped closed before he dragged them open again.

At last Alex pulled the towel away. "Next, pre-shave oil. I know this seems ridiculous, given that you're going to put foam on in a minute, but it really helps to make the skin smoother. You want the blade edge to just take off the hair, not the top layer of your skin."

"I'm rather attached to my skin," Peter agreed, which was a terrible old joke, but it made Alex laugh nonetheless.

"Idiot," he said. He set the towel aside and picked up the first of the two bottles, thumbing the cap open and pouring a little oil out into the palm of his hand. He set the bottle aside and rubbed his hands together thoroughly. Then he took a breath and put his palms to Peter's neck. 

Peter had to bite down on his tongue to stifle a moan. Alex's hands were callused from years of farm work and dig work, and they felt big and strong where they touched him. Alex worked in the oil slowly, fingertips making small, firm circles, palms sliding up against the grain of the stubble. The movements were purposeful but not quite brusque, not quite – Peter thought – entirely to the point. Probably Alex just wanted to make the process vaguely pleasant for him, wanted him to develop an appreciation for this in the same way that they all wanted to develop an appreciation for the Victorian way of life.

But it felt amazing. For a while, neither of them spoke. Alex's hands moved up and then up again, fingers curling over Peter's jaw and thumbs pressing into the hollows underneath in a way that released some unnameable tension. The oil didn't smell like much of anything, just a vague richness. Peter sucked in a deep breath, held it, let it out again. 

The application of oil finished with Alex smoothing his palms over Peter's cheeks, and then he reached for yet another towel, wiping his hands. "Next, cream." He reached for the shorter jar, then paused. "Do you usually use cream?"

"No," Peter admitted. "Just canned foam."

Alex shook his head in mock disapproval. "Peter, my boy, you are missing so much."

Being called 'my boy' probably ought not to send that little thrill down his spine.

Alex twisted the lid off the jar, holding it out. There was a scent to this one – not strong, but considerably more pleasant than what he'd been given. There was a hint of nut to it, a thin waft of honey. 

"Nice," Peter said. "You think we'll be able to make this during the year?"

"I think so. The honey will be easy enough, anyway. There's almond oil in it as well, which I don't know about for sure."

"Don't tell me _The Book of the Farm_ doesn't include the ideal climate for almond growth," Peter said.

Alex grinned at him. "An excellent excuse for primary source research, don't you think?" he said.

Peter could hardly disagree with that. It did sound interesting. "Next week," he said. "We'll have Tuesday free, won't we?"

"Yes, I think so," Alex said. "Sounds good." He paused a moment, then said, "Right, cream." He reached for the shaving brush and ran it under the tap, then shook out the excess water. "You can lather it in the jar, or you can just put a dab inside the hollow of the brush—" He demonstrated. "—and lather it in your hand or directly on the face. The rest is basically like doing it from the can. Spread it around, cover everything, but not too fluffy."

"Is that the technical term?" said Peter. "Fluffy?"

Alex poked him in the side of the face with the brush. "Absolutely. Henry Stephens is very particular about it." He began swirling the brush on Peter's cheekbone, working in small circles that widened slowly as the lather began to build. Peter couldn't deny that the feeling of the brush was pleasant, like running his palm over the tops of autumn grass. The lather was slippery without being insubstantial. 

When Peter was firmly lathered up – another sentence that he couldn't let himself dwell on – Alex rinsed out the brush under the tap and set it aside. "Now," he said, "for the tricky bit. I'm going to sit so I can walk you through it."

He pulled up the other stool from the corner of the bathroom and sat behind Peter; for a moment, the only thing Peter could see in the mirror was himself, but then Alex leaned sideways a little and his head appeared over Peter's shoulder. He reached for the razor and carefully unfolded it. "Ideally, you want to hold it like this." Peter watched as he demonstrated, then took the razor when Alex handed it over.

"Like this?" He tried to imitate what he'd seen, but it didn't feel quite natural. Perhaps it was the effect of seeing it reversed in the mirror, or perhaps just that with his usual razor, he never really bothered with this kind of precision. He just aimed to get more or less all the hair and to make sure he didn't cut himself. 

"More like—" Alex reached down and curled his hand over Peter's, adjusting his grip. Peter shivered at the touch, at the heat of Alex's palm and the strength of his fingers. "Not too tight," Alex said. Was it Peter's imagination, or did he sound a little breathless? 

It had to be his imagination.

He forced himself to pay attention. "Then what? Just as usual?"

"No, no, no," Alex said. "Thirty degree angle."

"Thirty degree angle," Peter said, raising an eyebrow. "Is that the result of your own trial and error?"

"All my blood is still inside my body," said Alex, "which means no, in case that isn't clear."

Peter snorted.

"In any case," Alex said. "I'll show you the rest." He took back the razor, then caught Peter's eye in the mirror. "Stay absolutely still," he said. "Ready?"

Peter breathed in, breathed out. "All right. I'm ready."

Alex's free hand went over Peter's shoulder to his jaw, fingertips pressing in just enough to steady him and then pull the skin taut a little. "Start with the far side, the edge of a sideburn," he said. "That way if you make a hash of it, at least the cut won't be entirely obvious." He touched the edge of the razor to Peter's cheek and made a short stroke downwards. 

The pressure of the blade was gentle, almost too much so – Peter couldn't quite believe that it would work. But when Alex lifted the razor, he could see that it _had_ worked. He wanted to lift his hand and run a fingertip over it, feel the smoothness, but he knew he couldn't.

Alex dipped the razor in the cup on the edge of the counter and swished it around; Peter could hear the faint slop of water. Then the razor was back for another stroke. "Short, steady movements," Alex murmured. "Don't try to do too much at once."

He worked across Peter's cheek and the edge of his jaw, rinsing the razor between each stroke. "Top lip is basically the same as the cheek," he said. "Pull on the other side of the mouth to smooth out the bit you're doing." He touched his hand to the top of Peter's mouth, demonstrating. Peter thought about how close Alex's fingers were, how easy it would be to kiss them.

It seemed like it would last forever, this slow, careful process. Their bodies were pressed together, chest to back, side of face to side of face on the left and then the right. Alex's hand was strong where it cupped his face, and the other, holding the razor, was absolutely steady. It was quite possibly the most intimate thing Peter had ever experienced, more intimate than sex – because even with sex, he'd never been this vulnerable, this trusting. He couldn't imagine offering that to anyone but Alex.

If only it were mutual.

He stayed still, trying to pay attention and stifle his arousal at the same time. His jeans were probably baggy enough to hide that much, but he could see his expression in the mirror and knew that he was too wide-eyed, too flushed. He couldn't imagine what Alex would think, if he noticed. But Alex wasn't looking at his face, not in that sense – just focusing intently on whichever bit of skin was relevant to his immediate task.

He carried on talking softly as he worked. "Nose up slightly for the center of the lip. Then the chin, from the lower edge of the lip downwards. When you get to the neck, work with the grain of the hair rather than against it. If you need to make a second pass for any missed spots, you can go against the grain then, but once you get good at this, you probably won't need to."

Peter's shoulders ached from the strain of not moving, of trying to make himself breathe evenly. He wanted – god, he didn't even know what he wanted. He _wanted_.

Finally the job was done. Alex rinsed the razor one last time, dried it on the edge of the towel, and then folded it closed before setting it on the edge of the counter and reaching for the warm towel once again. "Nicely done, if I do say so myself," he said, wiping away the last of the foam, and then he put down the towel and stroked an absent, proprietary hand down the line of Peter's neck.

Peter made a rough, helpless noise in the back of his throat. "Alex."

Alex jerked his hand away; when he looked up into the mirror, his face was flushed. "Sorry, sorry. I— I just—"

Peter caught Alex's hand in his own. Something hot and daring had curled itself into his chest. " _Alex_." He twisted around on the stool, banging their knees awkwardly together, and then before he could lose his nerve, leaned in and kissed him.

Alex stuttered, then moaned into the kiss, reaching up to curl his other hand around the back of Peter's neck and pull him closer. "Peter," he said, mouthing the word against his lips. "You—"

"Yes." Peter's pulse was hammering. "Yes, absolutely."

"I couldn't help touching you."

"I wanted you to." He scraped his teeth over Alex's bottom lip and felt him shudder; Alex's hand went tight and demanding on the back of his neck.

"What else do you want?"

Peter had to close his eyes at that. "I—" It was an impossible question. 

"Want me to—"

"Please."

Alex cupped Peter's jaw in both hands and kissed him again, slick and heated, and suddenly it was easy for Peter to relax into it, to give himself over. Alex knew him so well that talking seemed superfluous.

They just kissed for a while; Alex seemed determined to taste and tease, determined to be methodical in the way that Peter had seen so many times as they worked together. But it was intoxicating now, like this, with himself as the subject of Alex's full attention. Like he was as precious an artifact as anything they'd ever discovered. 

By the time Alex broke away, they were both breathing hard. "Can you—" Alex's hands went to his biceps; Peter got the idea quickly and stood up so that Alex could push the stools aside. "Up," Alex said, more firmly, and so Peter reached back and hoisted himself up onto the edge of the counter.

"You're a big, strong ox, aren't you?" Alex murmured, coming to stand between Peter's knees and tug at the hem of his tee.

"Don't you dare—" Peter said, and then cut himself off as Alex pulled the shirt up over his head.

"Mmm?" said Alex, lifting it up off Peter's arms and tossing it away into a corner of the bathroom. He spread his hands wide across Peter's shoulders and then down over his chest, looking him over with eyes hooded.

"Don't you dare say something crass about the masculine endowments of oxen," Peter said, breathless, and Alex startled out of his contemplation with a laugh. 

"I'd have thought you'd be flattered," he said. 

"The oxen should be flattered," said Peter, and Alex laughed even harder.

"Does that mean you're going to do all the heavy lifting this year?" he said. "Put the horses out of business? There's quite a lot of plowing to do, you know."

"A certain amount of plowing can be appealing," said Peter, waggling an eyebrow.

Alex swatted him, grinning. "Now who's being crass?" 

Peter's attempt at a comeback dissipated into nothingness as Alex's swat turned into something slower, more purposeful. Alex's thumbs went up the sides of his neck, and then he was tilting Peter's head back firmly, exposing the line of his throat. Peter groaned and went with it.

"Good," Alex said, and Peter felt himself go hot all over. 

"Is it?" 

"Very good," said Alex. "Very, very good." He kissed down the line of Peter's neck, chastely at first and then with tongue and teeth tracing slow, purposeful paths.

Peter's skin was still sensitive from the shave, and every touch made him shudder. He was absolutely aching now, torn between not wanting Alex to stop and yet also knowing there was a distinct possibility that he'd come before he could even get his trousers off. Eventually he braced himself on the counter with one hand, cupped the back of Alex's neck with the other. "Alex."

Alex lifted his head with a sigh. "Yeah?" 

"Close," Peter said, too desperate to manage a full sentence.

"All right," said Alex. He slid his hands down and began unbuckling Peter's belt, unzipping his jeans. "Lean back."

Peter shifted his hand sideways on the counter so that he could lean back and let Alex tug his shoes and jeans and pants off entirely. Then he was naked, back arched and utterly exposed in the bright overhead lights. He felt dizzy, as if Alex's hand on his knee was the only thing that held him to the earth. And yet after the taut vulnerability of the shave, this was almost easy.

"Are you sure you don't want me to say something about oxen?" Alex said, which was enough to crack a little of the tension, enough to let Peter find words again.

"No, no oxen." He kicked at Alex's hip, smiling. "You could have a little aesthetic appreciation, though."

"Oh, I do," said Alex. "I absolutely do." He reached out and took hold of Peter's free hand, pulled it down and shaped his fingers around his cock. "Show me," he said. "You'd better practice demonstrating things, after all. So show me what you like."

"God." Peter began to stroke himself, slowly at first and then with increasing confidence as Alex watched, lips parted. "Hope you're not going to— _ah_. Not going to make me demonstrate _this_ on camera." It felt incredible to touch himself at last, just the way he liked it, teasing for a while and then suddenly stroking hard in the way that always made him shudder.

"It would certainly expand our viewing figures," Alex said; he sounded almost casual, but there was a faint shakiness to his voice that betrayed his arousal. He trailed his fingertips over the crease of Peter's hip. "Oh, Fonzie, my boy," he said, and Peter moaned helplessly at the sound of that old nickname. They were far enough from university that he was trying to shed it – it seemed embarrassing now, and 'Peter' so much more professional – but from Alex it was the sweetest endearment. 

"Alex…" 

"You like that?" Alex asked. "Being Fonz?"

"You gave me that name," Peter said, and was rewarded by the sight of Alex's eyes going wide.

"Oh, fuck," Alex said, and suddenly he was fumbling with his own buckle, his haste in stark contrast to the confidence with which he'd handled Peter’s. "Fuck." At last he got his cock out, hand going immediately to give it a stroke. He braced the other hand on Peter's thigh.

"God," he said, "you, you absolutely—" 

He was beautiful like this, face sharply flushed, cock thick and strong and wet. Peter wanted to touch him, taste him, press their bodies together and rut against his thighs. Wanted to let Alex push him down, wanted to beg to come.

That, at least, he could do.

"Please," he said. "I— can I—"

"You want to come?"

" _Please_."

"Yes," Alex said, stroking himself harder, "yes, _yes_ ," and Peter came with a soft, shuddering cry, losing himself in the heat of his hand and the equal heat of Alex's gaze. Then Alex was coming too, gasping, striping Peter's thighs with his come.

Time seemed to pause there for a long moment, the two of them suspended in the bright light of the bathroom, the air thick and damp between them. Then Alex surged forwards and they were kissing again, sweet and lingering. Alex's hands were on his waist, sticky and sweat-dampened.

The arm that Peter had been using to hold himself up was wobbly with the strain of it, so he pushed upwards and draped both arms over Alex's shoulders, careless of his own mess.

"I don't think I'll ever shave without thinking of this," he said. Alex's cheek was rough against his lips as he smiled.

"I could do it for you myself every morning," he said.

Peter shivered a little at the thought of Alex's hands all over him first thing in the morning – and also a little at the use of those words. _Every morning_. Like Alex could see this lasting. Peter hadn't really doubted it, not with the display of possessiveness that he'd just been treated to. But it was nice to have primary source evidence nonetheless.

"Then we wouldn't get out of bed until ten," he said, trying to sound more amused and less utterly besotted.

"And?" said Alex.

"And Ruth would thump us."

Alex hesitated, but only for a moment. "And?"

"And the animals would starve," Peter said, playing his trump card. Alex laughed.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Livestock is important." Then he leaned back to give Peter a mischievous look. "In fact, recently I've been thinking that we could use an addition to our menagerie."

"Oh?"

Alex poked him in the chest. "Maybe a nice, big, strong ox?" 

Peter laughed. "You'll have to keep him when the year is up," he said, half enticement and half warning.

"Yeah," Alex said. He reached up and stroked his hand over Peter's neck once again. "Yeah, I'm definitely keeping him," he said, and they both leaned in for another kiss.


End file.
